Statistics and Instinct
by Lupa Eira
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has returned to Baker Street, and John has forgiven him, though it's an ongoing process. Still, Holmes heeds the words of the mysterious Rose Tyler. He encounters her again in a life-or-death situation, but not everything is as it appears to be. Post-Empty Hearse, but no Mary in this. Sequel to Given a Glimpse and Part 2 of the Pocket series. Eventual Roselock.


**Sherlock Holmes has returned to Baker Street, and John has forgiven him, though it's an ongoing process. Still, Holmes heeds the words of the mysterious Rose Tyler. He encounters her again in a life-or-death situation, but not everything is as it appears to be. Post-Empty Hearse. Sequel to Given a Glimpse and Part 2 of the Pocket series.**

**Yes, you read that correctly, I've decided to make a series of oneshots. So far it's looking to be about five parts long. Given a Glimpse is the first installment. I'm not actually editing GAG at all, but the meaning of certain sentences might be altered, so after the last installment is posted you might want to go back and read it in a different light. You could regard these subsequent works as separate if you liked, I guess, but in my mind they're connected.**

**Oh yeah, in case anybody was wondering, I had to take down The Bird With Wolf's Eyes because apparently songfics are against Fanfiction's policies. This greatly irritated me; I was very proud of how it turned out, but I guess there's nothing for it.**

**As for the second installment of Omniscience: writer's block plus procrastination using other stories plus schoolwork is a lethal combination.**

* * *

_If you grant someone a glimpse in all its wonder and then take it away it will kill both the giver and the receiver in more ways than one._

They were words hidden in the room of Sherlock's mind palace labeled Bad Wolf in white spray paint on the door. Inside were swirling words and the single memory of a woman with unnatural blond hair and huge unfathomable brown eyes. The detective had found, upon looking at the memory of her face at a later time, that miniscule threads of gold weaved through the brown. The pattern of the threads seemed so regular that they almost didn't seem natural. Color aside, her eyes had been...different. So alive. Inexplicably deep. Not blank, no, in fact she had been unbelievably honest when he had encountered her, but just hidden. Mysterious. Though Sherlock had been able to make basic deductions about her, much of the rest of who she was was veiled away from his sight. It was, for a lack of a better word, infuriating.

_Not all mysteries are yours to solve, Sherlock Holmes._ Unfortunately, women who were puzzles seemed to be weaknesses of his. More unfortunately, he hadn't been able to find Rose Tyler, as an alias or otherwise, even with Mycroft's help. Which didn't make any sense, but there was nothing for it.

Sherlock exited his mind palace. Somehow his thoughts always seemed to drift to Rose Tyler while he wasn't on a case. Who was she? He had heeded her words, of course, not that he had ever extended that courtesy to anyone else. His relationship with John was arguably the most important in his life, and he would be damned if he were to mess it up. He had messed up the reunion big time, and he couldn't afford to mess it up irrefutably. He had been careful, he had been gentle, and he had been cautious. It was most uncharacteristic of him, to be sure, but everytime he wanted to do something rash, Miss Tyler's utterly annoying voice with her South London accent came back to him:

_You are arrogant, Sherlock Holmes. When you come back, and John sees you, will you really just assume that everything will go back to how it was?_

No one except John had ever been so honest with him, and even John had mostly never been so direct.

Sherlock elegantly unfolded himself from his thinking position on his armchair and strode over to his coat, where it was hanging. He needed to get rid of these utterly fruitless thoughts. He drew it on, flipping up the collar.

"Going somewhere?" John asked from his chair. Sherlock froze, then turned around.

"Yes," he said quietly. Almost too quietly. "Care to join me?" John smiled, put his newspaper down, and stood up. He grabbed his coat, and walked out the door. Sherlock allowed himself a brief smile in relief, following his friend out the door.

They ended up down at Angelo's, where the man himself came by their traditional table and lit a candle on it with a wink. John only halfheartedly protested that he was not, in fact, gay, while Sherlock did nothing, feeling amused and strangely emotional by the familiarity of it. A half hour passed with John successfully diverting his attention from the mysterious encounter.

A flash of blond hair caught his eye.

Sherlock almost growled in frustration. Damn that woman! Why was this single, unimportant encounter affecting him so deeply...wait. That hair. He sat up. He stiffened as she turned around, gazed at him through the glass of the window and then pointedly turned through a nearby alleyway.

If he had had any doubt at her facial features, which he didn't, any others would be utterly decimated when he saw those impossible eyes. John noticed Sherlock's stiff posture and the direction of his gaze.

"What is it?" he asked worriedly, glancing out the window.

"It's her," Sherlock said, his shock leaking through his tone.

"Who?" John asked with a furrowed brow, but his flatmate had already stood up and with his usual single-minded determination strode out the door.

Sherlock had a feeling she would not show herself with John present, so he texted him to go back to the flat on the way. Hopefully he followed Sherlock's request. Meanwhile, Sherlock reached the front of the alleyway. Deliberately and respectfully, he turned his back to the alleyway. He patiently pretended to study the stars. He couldn't help but smile as he heard padding footsteps, but he quickly arranged his face neutrally as the footsteps came to a stop next to him. He did not turn his head.

"Full moon," she observed.

"Statistically, the night of the month potentially most likely to trigger murder," Sherlock said casually.

"Always has to be murder with you, or else it's not important, huh?"

"Murder is interesting."

"I didn't come here to chat, unfortunately," she said, turning to face him. Her wide mouth was set in a frown. There were dark circles under her eyes, presumably from stress. Sherlock finally turned his gaze from the sky to the woman and was startled somewhat by the urgency she radiated. "You should go back to the flat now," she said. "Tomorrow will be a hard day for you. Just remember that none of this was meant to happen. And you can change it." As she had talked, she had quickly moved out of Sherlock's line of sight. The detective turned to her, eyebrows drawn in question, but she was already gone in a flash of white light, and somehow he knew he would not find her. Sherlock began walking back to the flat. He smiled a bit when the flat was in his sights, busy trying to decode what Miss Tyler could possibly have meant.

Not ten seconds later, he heard a gunshot.

_Statistically, the night of the cycle potentially most likely to trigger murder_. Statistically, he knew that. Instinctively, he did not care.

_John_.

He ran, back to the flat and back to John. He did not look back.

What he found was...wrong.

It wasn't supposed to happen.

_John is dead._

* * *

As it turned out, John lasted until the next day. He did not wake up once. He just...died.

* * *

After he was released from the hospital (supposedly, he had gone into shock and completely blacked out), Sherlock Holmes walked. He couldn't for the life of him remember where he went. He looked up at one point, and found it suddenly dark. Anyone watching him would have suddenly seen the detective freeze, taut as tightened steel wire, and begin to stride almost blindly toward the direction of the alleyway.

The only reason why Sherlock hadn't succumbed to the temptation of an overdose was because of Rose's words, shining and echoing thunderously through the walls of his mind palace:

_NONE OF THIS WAS MEANT TO HAPPEN. AND YOU CAN CHANGE IT._

She was waiting for him when he got there. Her impossible brown eyes were sad but dry. The detective's eyes were also dry, but bloodshot. His hands shook violently, so he kept them inside his coat pockets. The young woman eyed his covered hands quickly and then looked back to his face, shifting subtly into a defensive stance. Not so subtly, however, that Sherlock didn't see it. He would have smirked if he felt up to it.

He brought the gun from his pocket level to her face. Rose, to her credit, looked unsurprised. She nodded towards the device in his hand.

"You don't want to do that," she said quietly.

"Give me one reason not to." Sherlock's voice was ice and fire, ash and icicles made coarse from holding back tears and the absence of a person who was never supposed to leave.

"You can change this," Rose said again, moving slowly towards him. Her voice was non-judgemental, low and soothing, as one would talk to a wounded animal. Rose was acting as an embodiment of hope, a conductor of light-Sherlock violently shook his head and kept his aim on the blonde woman before him.

"You keep saying that, but why didn't you stop it in the first place if I can change it now?" he accused. Rose laughed. The laugh was harsh and bitter and oh-so-sad; it sounded like she was drowning. She murmured something to herself that Sherlock didn't catch. "What?"

"Nothing," she said quickly. She stood up straighter. To the detective's chagrin, she had moved closer while his thoughts had been swirling around in torment. "But I am not your enemy, Sherlock." The detective blinked. There was something in the way she said his name, some itch at the back of his brain, some clue that he was missing...but before he could chase it, Rose began speaking again and it disappeared. "I couldn't stop it then, just trust me on that. But there's a chance to stop it now...or should I say, again."

Sherlock took a moment and looked into her eyes. They had tormented him for months after her initial appearance, and now she was here to help again. He needed to trust her without any kind of real evidence. There was no choice; for once, the Great Detective chose to follow his instincts instead of logic.

"What do I do?" he asked hoarsely.

Rose smiled without showing her teeth. It was more a grimace than anything else.

"Come with me," she said quietly.

She took his hand, and everything disappeared in a flash of golden light.

* * *

**This was originally intended to be longer, but hey, I wanted to post and this was a good place to stop. Nice little introduction to the series and what it's going to be about, kind of. Worry not, I have planned out this whole oneshot series, so hopefully I won't keep you waiting too much for updates.**

**I might update here, or I might just make every installment separate. Either way, be on the lookout!**

**Funny little note: it never ceases to amuse me that the show "Sherlock" is listed directly the show "She-Wolf of London". Ah, the irony.**

**Anyone who reviews gets virtual cookies and hugs!**


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